


didn't mean to turn you on

by kageygirl



Series: they don't write 'em like that anymore [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Slice of Life, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/kageygirl
Summary: He's not exactly certain how much vexation it would take for Geralt to drown him in the river, but by the look in those narrowed amber eyes, Jaskier is in danger of finding out.And yet, despite the possibility of peril most dire, he can't stop giggling.Because twenty minutes ago, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, witcher, hero, the living personification of lethal power and uncanny grace…… fell in the fucking river.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: they don't write 'em like that anymore [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774939
Comments: 69
Kudos: 1051
Collections: Best Geralt





	didn't mean to turn you on

**Author's Note:**

> Based primarily on the Netflix show/map/timeline, with a fair amount of pillaging of various wikis, fandom osmosis, and liberties wildly taken.
> 
> Title is from "I Didn't Mean to Turn You On" by Robert Palmer.

He's not exactly certain how much vexation it would take for Geralt to drown him in the river, but by the look in those narrowed amber eyes, Jaskier is in danger of finding out.

And yet, despite the possibility of peril most dire, he can't stop giggling.

It's his _face_ ; for the past twenty minutes, Geralt has resembled nothing so much as a pissed-off housecat. Because twenty minutes ago, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, witcher, hero, the living personification of lethal power and uncanny grace…

… fell in the fucking river.

And now his witcher's lovely face has those two little furrows carved above his eyebrows, and the muscle in his jaw keeps twitching, and every time Jaskier catches sight of it, his laughter is reignited. Which makes Geralt scowl _harder_ , which makes Jaskier _laugh_ harder, which makes Jaskier's impending watery demise impend that much more quickly.

Poor Geralt can't even tromp around their campsite -- not that he tromps, really, he's more sneaky stealthy death than stompy shouty death -- because his boots have been set out to dry, well away from the campfire. At least he hadn't gotten his armor wet; then he'd really be in a mood.

But he also can't tell Jaskier off for giggling, because that would mean having to acknowledge that the giggling bothers him. Geralt doesn't like to acknowledge being bothered by little things like _stab wounds_ , let alone a blow to the pride that he likes to lie about not having. So instead, he glares, and Jaskier giggles, and the life expectancy of bards in this area of the forest continues to dwindle at an alarming rate.

Even more alarming, his _ribs_ are starting to hurt, so Jaskier picks a tree well away from Geralt to stare at, and runs his mind through the list of composition masters at Oxenfurt, along with their most famous works, in chronological order, until the urge to laugh has been well and truly extinguished by Master Pontipax (forever to be remembered as "Poncy Pants" thanks to a generation of disgruntled students) and his interminable _Conjunction of the Spheres_.

Thus sobered, when he finally looks over at Geralt again, he's able to manage a much more sympathetic mien. Geralt's a bit wary about meeting his eye, but when he does, he stares back for a moment, then snorts and glances away, and Jaskier translates that into something like forgiveness for the amusement at his expense.

He takes that as his cue to cross the campsite and sit next to Geralt, who's tending to the pot of stew over the campfire. Jaskier pulls one of their bags closer and digs out the precious little packet of salt and herbs that he tends to carry, waiting for Geralt's nod to add a bit of seasoning to the stew. Geralt never asks, and won't spend time or money on such little luxuries, but Jaskier bloody well can, and will; keeping body and soul together takes more than mere base sustenance, as he's told Geralt time and time again.

Geralt never asks, but he also never objects, and it pleases Jaskier to pamper him this way, in the guise of serving his own palate. He's never said so, but Jaskier guesses that Geralt's sense of taste is no less acute than his sense of smell, and since Jaskier can't imagine those horrible witchery potions are a treat to imbibe, it's nice to be able to improve what he can on the pleasant end of the gustatory spectrum.

"Rabbit?" he asks about the pot; he'd noted the witcher bringing _something_ furry back with him from the far side of the river, but he'd missed the details, what with all the laughing.

Geralt hums an affirmative.

"Not fish?" he asks casually, and pauses for effect, letting Geralt turn and glare at him before Jaskier meets his eyes and blinks innocently.

Geralt eventually murmurs, "Wrong bait," and this time, when Jaskier laughs, the corners of Geralt's mouth turn up, a pleased glint in his eye.

* * *

Some time later, Geralt retrieves his damp boots, a small square of wool, and a jar of leather wax. Jaskier flexes his fingers in little "give it here" motions as Geralt sits down beside him, and the witcher sends him a quizzical frown. 

"Look, it seems only fair to assist, as your unfortunate -- " he nearly says _accident_ , but Geralt's frown hardens a bit, and he corrects his course -- " _mishap_ was probably my fault, somehow," he says, grinning a bit. See, we're all fuck-ups here, nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, Geralt's nose gets all wrinkly when he can't soak the waxy smell off his hands, and Jaskier's heart is feeling a bit tender tonight; he's not sure he can take another round of Geralt looking adorably irritated.

But Geralt's eyes have widened, and he cuts his chin away, a telltale that if he could blush, those sculpted cheekbones would be pink and rosy. Jaskier blinks, and then, very carefully, says, "Geralt? _Was_ it my fault, somehow?"

Geralt remains facing away for a long moment, then shakes his head once. Instead of turning back to Jaskier, though, he faces forward, giving Jaskier his profile. "I was… looking at you," he says, and then drops his gaze to the boot in his hand.

"Me?" Jaskier repeats, and tries to put that in some kind of context that makes sense.

When they'd stopped earlier, they'd decided to make camp near a -- well, he'd called it a river, and Geralt had called it a stream, and Jaskier had said, "An ex-stream-ly small river?", and Geralt had given him one of those _looks_ that made him feel as if he'd fulfilled his purpose in waking up that morning.

There were a few tumbled rocks that made a sort of stepping-stone path across the -- riverlet -- if one were either a very sure-footed animal, or a witcher, and Geralt had taken a sheathed sword with him to make sure nothing fangy and horrible was waiting on the opposite shore to devour highly talented but unsuspecting bards.

He hadn't used those words, but Jaskier could read between the lines.

Jaskier had filled their waterskins, and a pot of water for boiling, and then he'd stripped off his doublet and crouched at the water's edge to clean himself up a little. He'd taken a mouthful of water from his cupped hands, splashed some on his face, then tipped his head back to rub down his neck and the hollow of his throat with wet hands.

And then he'd heard the louder splash and the sharply bitten out, "Fuck," and looked up to see Geralt, up to his knees in the little watercourse, one hand braced on the boulder he had _clearly just fallen off of_.

When he saw Jaskier looking back, he'd instantly looked so upset that Jaskier himself had almost rolled into the water, overcome with hilarity.

"You were -- looking at me?" he asks now, and Geralt isn't, won't, but that muscle in his jaw is twitching again.

He looks oddly vulnerable with bare feet, in a way that he doesn't even when fully naked. Naked, Geralt looks like a god condescending to walk among mortals. In shirtsleeves and trousers, there's a strange fragility to his aura of strength.

Jaskier slides himself off the log, kneeling at Geralt's bare feet, and surprise brings Geralt's gaze back to him, eyes a little wide.

"Did you like what you saw?" Jaskier asks, quiet, careful, as if his heart _isn't_ thudding in his chest, as if all he need worry about is spooking his skittish friend.

In the firelight, Geralt's eyes gleam like old gold, battered and worn but beautiful still. His eyes slip shut, and Jaskier endures an eternity until in a soft voice, gravelly as a mountain slope, Geralt murmurs, "Yes."

It makes Jaskier's throat go tight. His witcher is so very brave.

"Good," he whispers, reaching out, gently touching the hard knob of one ankle. "That's good, Geralt."

Geralt opens his eyes again, and Jaskier smiles up at him, projecting a calm at odds with the way his insides have gone tremulous and fluttery. Then he takes the little jar, and the boot that Geralt's holding, and scoots himself back against the log, dipping two fingers into the wax and beginning to coat the damp boot with it.

He can feel Geralt staring down at him, and it warms his chest, right where his heart is thudding to a different rhythm, now. But he doesn't return the look; years of following Geralt have taught him more about patience and restraint than his tutors would have thought it possible for him to absorb. He's been given a gift, and the last thing he wants is to scare off the giver. Vizima wasn't built in a day, after all. He can wait.

Then a hand drifts tentatively down the back of his head, fingers barely teasing at his hair before vanishing, and oh, the warmth in his chest becomes a miniature sun.

Perhaps the wait will not be so very bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [kageygirl](http://kageygirl.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, hit me up to yell about these idiots and their idiot feelings


End file.
